


Broken Shields

by Wanderer (Straggler)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Other, Paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straggler/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles always knows what to say, whether Erik wants to hear it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hwazzah, another story to add to the list.
> 
> I'm still not used to the tags and what not. It confuses me...I'm totally serious.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll like this new story! Personally, I think it's better than First Strike, but that's just me being terribly biased. I'll let you find out on your own.
> 
> The other characters are also in the story but they don't have a large speaking role. Some of them don't even HAVE speaking roles, so I left them out from the character tags.

He was no stranger to blood. He was no stranger to guns. He was no stranger to violence, but as he pulled the wrecked bullet from the small of Charles’ back, nothing had ever felt more unreal, as if he was watching the world from the other side of the looking glass.

 

The memory had lost most of its sharp edges, but it was still there and still bright. Between the moments of still being caught in between his dreams and waking up, he could still feel the viscosity of blood between his fingers, the warmth of it, along with the feel of the dislodged bullet. If he wanted to focus on anything else but the intensity of Charles’ blue eyes, then he’d remember the cool breeze across his face, the heat of the sun on his back, his stomach dropping in perfect timing with the missiles.

 

The beach has been a recurring nightmare for many months now. Erik was more or less used to it, no longer having to wake up with staggering breaths and cold sweats anymore, but that’s not to say he’s become indifferent to it. It’s become part of his daily routine; the usual lineup of his days. But today, unlike every other day, the existence of mutants isn’t just a fairy tale or a figment of a young child’s imagination anymore; they are real. The word has spread. They know.

 

Erik was a little surprised it took this long (four months, two weeks, and a day), but he wasn’t surprised by the reception they (mutants) were receiving.

 

On the first of September, news debates (on television and radios) began the talk of mutants with a tentative air. Some were friendly, encouraging even, most were hostile remarks. Charles would probably say that humans revert to anger in order to hide their fear. He would say that they are afraid, and that it is not without reason; mutants are the superior race.

 

 _It is because they do not understand._

 

Or something equally foolish and naïve.

 

The radio debates are the liveliest, possibly because they don’t run on a scheduled time unlike television programs that have a strict limit for slots that need to be filled in and have been previously paid for. The radio debates are the liveliest also for their variety of speakers, differences in opinions, and passion, both good and bad.

 

Nobody, apart from Azazel, really bother with the radio. He only listens because it piques at his morbid sense of humor. At this moment, the host and the caller are both arguing whether mutants are a government conspiracy or not. Like Roswell.

 

But mutants, unlike aliens, are very much real, more than blurred images and somewhat dubious witness accounts of an ‘out of this world’ aircraft.

 

‘I’m glad you find this so amusing,’ Erik said as he picked up the discarded newspaper beside the man and proceeded straight towards the kitchen for some coffee.

 

Azazel stood and followed after him, his tail flicking the switch off as he passed. ‘Humans are so destructive. They argue amongst themselves, fight and kill just because one man dares to contradict another.

 

‘If this continues, we may not have to raise our hand at all.’

 

Erik smirked and settled on the kitchen stool, one hand on the morning paper and the other waving at the coffee machine next to the fridge and tucked right by the toaster. ‘Why, Azazel, I have never known you to be so passive.’

 

‘Passive?’ He snorted and took the next available stool just opposite the man. ‘Not at all. Besides, it would make for good entertainment.’

 

‘You are a deranged man.’

 

‘We all are.’

 

The both of them shared a very companionable relationship, clicked in ways that often rivaled against what Erik had once shared with Charles Xavier. They understood where they stood against the world, what they needed to do to protect, defend and conquer and when action against humans became necessary; something that Charles didn’t see eye to eye with.

 

Erik ignored the first sign of a headache (a stab on his left cranium) as he levitated a full cup of coffee towards him and read the front page of the papers. Mystique bought everybody their own personalized cups and glasses for the kitchen. She gave Erik a simple metallic cup, which he often changed the shape of depending on his mood of the day. He wasn’t in need of a distraction, so it remained as it was; plain and smooth.

 

The front page held nothing of much interest to him, unless he was someone who was passionate about keeping the environment green. The second and third page was not much better off, something about rising taxes and lack of jobs, and after the fourth, he decided he’d had enough.

 

‘I would have told you that there was nothing to read, but you insisted many times before,’ Azazel said with a poorly hidden smirk as he poured a cup of coffee for himself and added two sugars into the mix.

 

‘Yes, I recall,’ he sighed as he slipped two fingers beneath his helmet and rubbed at the skin of his forehead.

 

He didn’t understand. It was too early in the day to experience a headache, even if it’s just a small throb. He was prone to experiencing headaches at least once a day, his job ensured that prerogative, but this was the first time that it decided to take a preemptive strike against him before he even began his day. It was almost ridiculous.

 

‘The sun has not reached its zenith, yet,’ the devil commented with a loud sip of his drink and watched Erik with keen eyes, ‘perhaps you are getting old.’

 

Or perhaps the headache was the leftover from yesterday.

 

Though he could not see the smirk hidden behind the cup, Erik could hear it in his voice. If he wasn’t experiencing such a headache, he might’ve laughed. Or perhaps not; he could count the amount of times he’s laughed within the last half-decade on one hand, and most of it were menacing.

 

With a smooth wave of his hand, he levitated his barely-touched coffee towards the sink and left towards the office where he was certain Emma would be. This time, Azazel did not follow.

 

When they went to retrieve Emma from CIA hands, they were also able to gather multiple files and records for their own personal use. Of course, not much of it involved mutants, yet, but information was a very powerful commodity, and as they say; knowledge is power.

 

They took almost everything, destroyed almost everything and left with the building barely able to hold itself together. He was not sorry, though Raven looked close to tears. Erik was not unsympathetic; she was unused to violence and destruction, but she would have to get used to it, eventually. Preferably sooner rather than later.

 

The office was not located too far away, merely tucked behind a revolving bookshelf. They had chosen to regroup in the Hellfire Club, at least behind the scenes. Whatever was happening up front was no longer their business or their concern. Erik also made sure that the switch to gain entrance to their side was thoroughly disabled, as in, crushed beyond repair. It now resembled more like a stub in the middle of a table than a centerpiece.

 

The Hellfire Club had not been Erik’s first choice of stay, but the location proved helpful, simply because it was one of Shaw’s previous abodes, meaning it contained files, much needed information, various points of contact and a place to start. Eventually, he knew they’d have to pack up and leave to form their own foundation; from the ground up, but temporarily, where they were now was good enough.

 

The bookshelf was held ajar. Apparently, it had been that way for quite some time. He paid it no mind as he pushed at the air and the shelving moved along with him. He was handed a file as soon as he stepped through, though he didn’t open it until he was sitting behind the desk.

 

‘And what do we have here?’ Erik asked as he flipped through the pages and summarized the key points. California. Research. Mutants.

 

Those words did not bode well with him.

 

‘One of our contacts has good word that there some unfavorable ongoings within the Californian region,’ Emma began with a casual turn of the page. Her eyes did not linger on any one part of it for too long before she moved on. ‘It’s insinuated that some of our kind have been captured and transferred to a guarded facility somewhere on the Californian coast.’

 

‘Any specifics?’

 

She turned to another page, ‘mainly those who have physical mutations; scales, claws, horns, tails, etcetera and so on. I can’t give a definite number, but it’s estimated to be roughly a dozen, more or less.’

 

‘It’s not enough; how much more can you get from this contact of yours?’

 

‘Give me another day, Sugar, and I’ll have you ready to move out by tomorrow.’

 

‘Good.’

 

Their meetings never lasted long, five at the shortest and thirty at the most. It was brief but to the point. The only times when it extended beyond that amount was if everybody was involved or if it was before they had to leave on a group task. Emma never tried to dilly-dally with him, he’d never appreciated it, but he appreciated her thoroughness on the way she worked. Erik could see why she Shaw had chosen her as his ‘right hand man’; she was not just a pretty thing to look at.

 

Emma was gorgeous, with a quick wit and a sarcastic sense of humor, very much like Azazel but less morbid and less red. Erik felt that if she wasn’t a Telepath, he might’ve been more open with her. As it were, the helmet stays on his head twenty-four, seven.

 

She was also very diligent, and it was barely twenty-four hours later that Emma returned to Erik with a knowing smile on her face and another folder marking her success.

 

California was a large state, and unless they knew the exact location of the research facility, it was unwise to move in without knowing the more specific details concerning their new operation. Their method of dealing never stayed the same way twice, but the commonality involved plenty of fire-power, blood-shed and an insane amount of metal-working. It practically became their signature, and Erik made notes to himself to be more discreet with his powers, though it was hard when all he could see was red and all he could feel was anger and pain for his brothers and sisters. The headache he often had hardly helped much matters, either.

 

On the second of September, just before dusk fell over Vegas, Erik, along with a small group of his team, teleported to one of the quiet islands just off the Californian coast where Emma had plucked the details off from her contacts. Immediately, they were greeted with the sight of barbed wires, outposts and gunfire. Erik made another note to himself to be more discreet with their infiltration.

 

Emma was quick to shift to her secondary mutation and use her first to mentally knock out the visible targets. Azazel followed next by disappearing with a shifted Mystique and returning with an armful of mutants to replace her.

 

They were dead.

 

Erik decided, _to hell with my notes_ , and made sure the facility resembled nothing but a scrap heap by the end of his tirade.

 

In less than ten minutes, they managed to gather only five live humans, a good stack of paperwork for their collection of notes and a tally of thirteen dead mutants, some whole and some not so, but all with physical mutations.

 

The four men and one lone woman were cowering on their knees. Emma looked cold and aloof but there was a gleam in her eyes that revealed her rage and distaste for them. Azazel stood beside her, half to intimidate and half to offset her purity (or lack thereof), but mainly, he did it just to have something to laugh about later.

 

The Angel and the Demon, standing side by side. Those who did not believe in God or the Devil cannot help but reconsider where to put their faith after this encounter. If they walked away from this, they would lead their lives as crazed men and women who vowed they saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Either they would be institutionalized or they would become fervent supporters.

 

Erik couldn’t care less. He got what he wanted out of this. Though, he would’ve preferred if his brothers and sisters didn’t turn up dead at his feet. From beside him, Mystique was trying not to retch as the smell of rotting corpses wafted up to their noses.

 

 _Are you proud?_

 

After all this time, the sound of Charles chastising him was still there in his mind, fresh like yesterday. Erik supposed this is what his conscience decided to take the form of. It seemed quite fitting; Charles was the epitome of good, his better half, and the man who believed in peace.

 

Erik believed in peace, too, but he believed that in order to get there, violence was sometimes needed.

 

He turned away just as Mystique lost her composure on the upturned mound of grass. He didn’t mind. He was like this the first few times it happened, too, but with time, and practice, she’ll get used to it.

 

Emma walked away from the now unconscious men and woman towards Mystique. She surprised him by kneeling down beside her and murmuring softly, ‘calm down, Sugar.’ Mystique answered by throwing up her breakfast, and some of last night’s dinner.

 

Azazel passed both of the women towards Erik and not once did he turn his eyes on his fallen brethren, though he could not stop himself from wiping his blood-stained hands on the blue-tainted handkerchief he received from Emma. It was from one, or maybe two, of the dead mutants, but they were so mixed together in the pile that it was hard to tell what came from who.

 

‘Private facility; not government funded.’

 

Erik clicked his tongue in disgust. Private operators tended to be a waste of time, because they work under the radar, which means almost non-existent paper trails.

 

‘What else?’

 

The headache was growing worse. Where it had previously been a small thump once every hour or so, it had now grown to a steady stab-stab-stab of pain on the left side of his head. It hurt.

 

‘From what was gathered, it seemed that the mutants are merely humans that looked different.’

 

Erik’s eyebrow twitched. ‘So, apart from their looks, they’re nothing special.’

 

‘No. Most were taken from travelling road-side circuses. Two were abducted; no families. And one was ‘relieved’.’

 

Erik frowned, but his anger was mirrored in Azazel’s eyes and in the agitated flick of his tail.

 

Those who are ‘relieved’ are basically those who were ‘given up’ by their families. Either because they were told or they had assumed that their child would be taken away to a safe haven where no harm would come to them, or they could no longer make the effort to care for their non-human offspring. It didn’t matter to Erik either way. To him, they practically gave up their right as parents when they decided to let their child go away with strangers that had less than good intentions.

 

‘Any notable contacts?’

 

‘Yes, but unfortunately, he’s buried under piles of steel and concrete.’

 

Erik cursed and revised that maybe he ought to keep more than a handful of humans alive the next time they decided to ransack this kind of establishment. This running around in the dark was starting to grow tedious. He was thankful he had a Telepath with him, otherwise he probably wouldn’t get half as much done.

 

‘Azazel,’

 

The both of them turned towards Emma, and Erik spared Mystique a cursory glance; she looked like hell.

 

‘If you would be so kind as to help me with these?’ She said as she pointed at the piles of paperwork and a couple of pilfered filing cabinets. ‘I’ll need to get them in order, for cross-referencing.’

 

‘Of course.’ Together, the both of them disappeared. He continued to pop in and out of existence while Mystique took her usual stand beside Erik, her golden eyes focused on the dilapidated building.

 

‘How are you feeling?’

 

Mystique didn’t answer, but it was obvious by her parlor that she was still feeling unwell. She looked better when Azazel returned and took the bodies with him for a proper burial. It was likely that he’d be doing it alone, since Janos disliked getting his suit dirty and Angel was just as soft as Mystique when it came down to it.

 

He turned away from the sight and was finally able to fight away the aching stab in his head. He hoped it would keep away for at least until the next day when he was well-rested to take it on again. From behind him, the building rumbled and fell to pieces. Then, despite all odds, he heard footsteps, none of which belonged to Mystique.

 

He turned towards the building again and felt his world slow to a pause.

 

‘Erik, what have you done?’

 

He fought against the unseen entity that was forcing the breath out of his lungs, causing him to breathe in staggered breaths. A cold sweat was gathering across his forehead and a droplet traced the edges of his hairline down to his jaw. Is it possible?

 

‘Erik, how could you?’

 

His tone was accusing, but Erik could not fault the man for being angry. After all, he was standing on the final resting place for at least four dozen men and women who were unlucky enough to be caught working for such a foul cause. But still, he was not wrong. Erik believed so.

 

 _Why don’t you understand?_

 

Erik sighed his name; he had never felt as breathless before as he took in the sight of his friend and enemy standing in the middle of the wrecked building with a sharp, knowing look in his eyes; that sad, disappointed look in his deep, blue eyes.

 

From beside him, Mystique could not help but stare.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awh gosh, they took away the HTML setting for uploading the chapters. DX Gahhhh!! I hope they bring it back, because it took me five times as long to post this chapter than I would've liked. >_>
> 
> Manually putting in the italics was not cool.
> 
> ...Yes, I'm horribly lazy.

Erik didn’t know why, but there was a sudden lack of breath in his lungs. He supposed it had everything to do with the man who was inspecting his office space with a curious yet critical eye. He also supposed it had something to do with the fact that the man hadn’t changed from top to bottom since the last time he saw him back on the islands of Cuba, from his ridiculous hairstyle, down to the gloves on his hands and the boots strapped to his feet.

It was morning, just after sunrise, and his headache had decided to appear in the form of one Charles Xavier. It was ridiculous.

‘Your office is lovely,’ Charles commented as he fingered the spines of the many books that were tucked in the shelves according to alphabetical order to the authors’ names.

‘It belonged to Shaw.’ He said from his seat behind the desk, and noted with curiosity the casual hand drop from Charles when he said the dead man’s name.

He remembered Charles love for books and all things literary, but it surprised Erik that not even Charles, the man who wanted humans and mutants to be equal partners in the world, could stop from being prejudice. Erik smiled, just a little bit.

‘Interesting choice of stay.’

Erik smiled a little bit more at the smooth change in subject. ‘Yes, and despite my utter dislike for the dead man, I cannot fault that he had an impeccable system.’ He wouldn’t tell that he had been reluctant at first, but Emma being Emma convinced him, even with his helmet firmly placed on his head. He supposed she won him over by saying that this provided more than a firm enough footing to stand from and start his crusade.

‘Erik, why are you here?’

He raised an eyebrow at the question.

Here, could mean anything, from why he was here in Shaw’s office instead of their shared study back in Westchester County, or why he was here fighting on the opposite side when there wasn’t supposed to be _any_ sides when it came to _them_ , but Erik decided to assume that Charles was asking why he was here, here being their current location specifically. In which case, he couldn’t help but return the question right back to his inquirer.

‘I believe you took the words right out of my mouth.’

Charles’ eyes strayed back to the titles lined beside him. He fingered with the hem of his gloves before he answered quietly, ‘we want the same thing.’

‘No,’ he remembered, as clear as day the exact same ache in his chest as they both played their opposing parts, ‘no, we do not. You said so yourself.’

Charles huffed and bodily turned towards the other with narrowed eyes. ‘Am I not allowed to change my mind?’

‘Not without changing your moral core; Charles, you frown upon my ideals.’

‘No, I frown upon your _methods_.’

It wasn’t until Charles was right in front of him that Erik realized that he was standing, and on the opposite side of where his desk was located. Either he was getting faster or he was slowly losing his mind. He supposed it was the latter, wherever Charles is involved.

‘They are the same thing.’

Charles’ features contorted to one of deep sadness as he shook his head. ‘No, they are not.’ Then, he sighed. ‘Why must you insist upon this?’

While Charles’ mood was slowly coming down, Erik was steadily fuming. ‘ _This_ being? Please elaborate.’

This, could mean anything, from this potential war against the humans mounting just beyond the horizon, or that there is not a scrap of goodness in Erik despite all of Charles’ protestations. Erik is adamant.

‘I don’t think you need me to.’ _You know exactly what I’m thinking; you’re so much more than_ this.

Charles shook his head again, slower this time, as he walked away and returned his attention back to the books lining the shelves with his fingers back to fraying the edges of gloves. McCoy would be so disappointed.

If Erik had been a lesser man (not that he was), he would consider this a small victory against Charles. He supposed it helped that he was a very stubborn man, as unyielding as the element he’s learnt to better control over the years, control that was given to him through rage and serenity.

 _There is so much more good in you than you think._

Of course, Charles had his own version of stubbornness, if the man’s voice in his head had anything to do with it. Erik wondered if Charles planted a bit of his consciousness in his mind despite the helmet. It was both terrifying and oddly soothing.

It was then he realized his headache wasn’t there anymore. But Charles still wouldn’t leave.

\--

‘There,’ right on schedule, a convoy of three trucks just rolled into their line of sight. Heavily armored and heavily guarded, and all for the sake of transporting three sedated mutants. They were right to be prepared, but it wouldn’t be enough.

‘Remember the plan; no theatrics.’ From beside him, Charles snorted, and Erik turned to him with a raised eyebrow but otherwise ignored him.

When it was clear that they were ready, he made his move. With a wave of his hand, the engines of the vehicles cut off. Before the men could ponder what happened or why it happened or grow alert to a possible invasion, in that instance, Azazel along with Emma disappeared. There were eight distinctive bursts of air, and red smoke floated above the cold grounds with each pop.

The first pop belonged to the disappearance of two of his members, the second was of Azazel and one female mutant, the third was of his departure, the fourth was of him returning with another mutant, male this time, the sixth brought the presence of a mere child, barely ten years of age, and the eighth was of Emma arriving with no information concerning why the guards were transporting the mutants, nor who gave the final order to do so, or where their final destination would be.

Again, Erik couldn’t help but click his tongue in distaste. The guards may not have been fully prepared but whoever planned this convoy had been careful. It was a wise move, and despite rescuing three mutants from possible death, Erik could not help but feel defeated. This mission was not as successful as he had hoped.

‘It feels as if they knew.’

Erik snorted at Emma. ‘Unless they have a clairvoyant, I highly doubt that.’

‘They know too little; they’ve never been this cautious before,’ she said as she watched the three trucks from where they stood. Some of the men were now clamoring about, wondering what the hell just happened to them and weren’t they forgetting something?

‘They’re learning.’

‘You sound mocking.’

Erik sent a glare to Charles, one that specifically said, _be quiet._ A pursing of his lips along with a frown made it obvious that he received the message.

‘They don’t know who sent the order. The most I could glean from their minds was of a piece of paper with a signature and a seal of approval. The final destination is unknown; the mutants were to be transported with the use of another convoy with alternated guards and vehicles. So unless we follow them through each and every single stop, and I cannot tell how many there will be, we won’t know where they were meant to go.’

Erik rubbed at his jaw, trying to loosen up the tension that built up from grinding his teeth together while listening to the frustrating report Emma was giving. It seemed as if everything was not going as nicely as he had hope. If the look on the woman’s face was anything to go by, the feeling was mutual.

He turned to the man, woman and child. The older ones were still less than lucid, barely able to string a coherent thought together, but the youngest had taken a quick liking to Azazel, though the man did not seem to enjoy a young boy clinging to his dress pants.

Erik was not good with children, so he decided to leave the boy alone. And it was worth seeing the look of distress on Azazel’s face as he left the man to tending the young mutant. Azazel muttered something about being a gravedigger and now a babysitter, and then when he began to use a few choice curse words (some in English though most of them were a foreign language) Mystique had to cover the boy’s ears.

‘Their skills?’

Emma breathed in a cleansing breath and sighed. ‘Well,’ she began as she turned away from the scene down in the valley below, ‘the man is obvious enough, with his gills and webbed fingers. The woman, however, is a healer. She’s a nurse and at the top of her division. She also has a child and a husband who have been led to believe that she was murdered.’

Erik gave the smallest shakes of his head. As much as he would appreciate a healer in his team, it would be wrong to tear a mother and beloved wife from her family. He remembers, still suffers, the ache of losing his own and if there was anything Erik refused to be, it would be the kind of man who ripped families apart.

‘Speak with her when she fully wakes. If necessary, make her forget. If possible, make sure her disappearance never happened.’

Emma nodded and walked towards the woman just as she was starting to speak. They slurred and most of her words mumbled together, but if there was an ounce of coherency in her mind, then Emma would take it and make it work for her.

‘You’re a good man, Erik; your compassion proves this.’

He wished Charles didn’t goad him like this. It was hard enough trying to decide what to do next with their complete lack of information and this stab of a headache. ‘It is not compassion.’

Mystique turned to him in confusion.

He sighed and looked away from the woman that was now crying and the man that looked like a fish out of water; frustrated and utterly lost. ‘I will not become Frankenstein’s successor.’

‘What of the child?’

Erik turned to Azazel and noted the slightest sheen of sweat across the man’s brows. The boy had clung to the man out of sheer fright before, because this man rescued him from the others that threatened to shoot him, but now it seemed as though the boy was clinging just for the sake of clinging and to watch the man sweat. It was oddly endearing.

‘If the boy has no family, then we will provide ours,’ he said with a smirk which slowly turned into a wide grin, ‘I’m sure you’ll make an excellent father.’

Azazel began another string of curses and disappeared away in hopes of offloading the boy onto an unsuspecting Janos. If he was successful, he’ll consider it payback for not helping him dig the thirteen graves he needed from their last mission. If Janos was unavailable, then maybe Angel would provide a good enough distraction for Azazel to quickly flee.

‘Katherine will return to her family, though Darien has agreed to stay.’

From beside him, Charles sighed.

Erik felt a particularly hard stab cut through the slow twinge in his head, causing his vision to blur just the slightest. Even if the man was being quiet, he certainly was being very _quiet_ about it. ‘Problem?’

Mystique jumped. ‘No, no problem at all.’

Erik sighed and waved for Emma to move on. He’ll have to take two pills for his headache when they return back to base. It probably wouldn’t help much.

‘As for the boy,’ she began with a slow, almost playful smile, ‘he’s clairvoyant.’

Stunned, Erik felt that perhaps this mission wasn’t so much a failure after all, especially if they’ve managed to get a clairvoyant mutant to join their ranks. The bigger question would be _if_ the boy would join them.

‘Well, that’s…ironic.’

Erik wasn’t the kind of man to believe in karma, because it involved believing in a different kind of faith. But with the way his life was going so far, perhaps it might exist after all.

Or perhaps he was just lucky.

Then again, with the way his life was going, maybe not.

\--

‘I’m worried.’

‘About what, Sugar?’

Mystique stared into her rapidly cooling cup of stale coffee as she played with the rim of the blue ceramic cup. Something doesn’t feel right, and she’s starting to lose her confidence that maybe they’re not doing the right thing after all.

Emma sighed and brought the crystal wine glass to the lights. She swirled the Chardonnay in the glass twice before breathing it in and taking an appreciative sip of it.

‘It’s a long process and it’s been barely half a year; you’ll get used to it.’

Mystique frowned, both because the woman’s flippant intuition that she’ll get _used to it_ makes her feel otherwise and at the fact that Emma had just very blatantly read her mind.

The smallest of laughs left her. ‘You were projecting very loudly, dear; not my problem. For a person who used to live with a Telepath, I’m surprised your mental shields are so poor.’ She brought up with a casual glance to the blue woman over the rim of her wine glass.

‘Charles promised,’ she said with a low grumble, that’s why she never felt like she had to bother, so long as Charles kept to his promises.

‘Well, Sugar,’ she smiled and drummed her manicured fingers once on the table, ‘it’s time you get used to the fact that I’m not Charles; I have no qualms with reading the occasional thought that slips through that mind of yours.’

Mystique’s frown deepened and felt distress wrack through her body. Her skin rippled in a shudder, feeling as though she was being peeled back layer by layer. She decided she no longer wanted to be in the same room as Emma alone after this night. But knowing Telepaths and how they worked, it wouldn’t matter if they weren’t in the same room or in the same _state_ , you can never fully run away. However, it brought comfort to her if she couldn’t see Emma watching her.

 _Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind._ She repeated the mantra.

As she walked down the halls towards her bedroom, she heard voices coming in through Erik’s study. She heard voices, but it was really just the one. Erik was speaking, but to who? Perhaps Azazel, they were often seen together strategizing or jousting with words. Perhaps it was Azazel; he was closer to Erik than the others. It’s probably Azazel.

But when she walked past the living room, she spotted the man with Janos in a deep conversation by the bar both with a tumbler of scotch. No, it wasn’t Azazel, but then who was Erik talking to?

The very last thought that floated through her mind just before she fell to sleep was that she was worried. This time for Erik.


	3. Chapter 3

That previous night, he had a dream. He had a dream that he was drowning, and that Charles did not come to pull him from the crushing waters to tell him that he was not alone. He had a dream he had no serenity.

When he came to, every piece of metal in his room was warped beyond recognition and there were glass shards above his blanket under where the lights used to be. The only way he managed to put everything back together was by the feel of the metal and their placement around the room, though some were beyond full recovery, his only source of light within the room being one of them.

When he left, he saw Charles leaning on the wall in front of his bedroom door, waiting. He no longer found himself minding about Charles’ presence within his new found purpose in life. But he wondered for how much longer this would last for.

\--

Voices. Whispering voices, harried voices, smooth voices, echoing down the halls to where she stood in the middle.

She walked past the office, Emma is not with Erik.

She walked through the living room, Janos is entertaining himself with the day’s newspaper and Angel is idly flipping through a woman’s fashion magazine on the opposite end of the couch.

She walked into the kitchen, Azazel is having cheese on toast, Jon is eyeing the tail with fascination while his soggy cereal sat on the side completely ignored and Darien is minding his own business.

She heard voices in Erik’s study. Haughty voices, disappointed voices, scornful voices.

No, just one voice; Erik’s.

\--

The mind is a fortress.

The mind is a fortress but little by little, Erik could feel it crumbling away from around him, leaving him exposed and making him feel less than adequate. He is not. This he knows. So why does he feel otherwise?

‘That, my friend, is a thing called guilt.’ Charles said from where he sat with an open book on his lap.

‘I do not feel guilty for what I’ve done,’ though he could not ignore the slightest tension he felt in his chest as he thought back on what he’s done and what he’s made others do for him, ‘I am not wrong.’ He is adamant. He has saved the lives of his brothers and sisters. If anything, he is proud.

‘I beg to differ. Your subconscious is saying otherwise.’

Or as proud as a man can be with blood on his hands and a drowning sensation in his mind.

\--

‘I’m worried.’

Emma said nothing as she poured herself another generous glass of Pinot Gris. She did not bother smelling its bouquet before she drank half of it in one gulp.

Mystique watched her with something close to trepidation as the woman continued to drink the wine like it was only water. She hoped that Emma would stop at one bottle and no more.

Both of them said nothing more that night.

The very last thought that floated through Mystique’s mind just before she fell to sleep was that she was worried. Again for Erik.

This time, she was not the only one to worry.

\--

 _Duck and cover. Duck and cover._ There were too many debris flying about in the air, most of which he could not control. The building was falling apart, the foundations no longer sound, all because of a man who decided it would be a marvelous idea to use a bazooka inside such close quarters for the sake of injuring and/or killing them regardless of whether his fellow men were clear of the way or not.

Humans were terrible.

This couldn’t possibly be more of a disaster than it already was. Angel was suffering holes and rips in her wings, unable to fly, though she was still capable of returning fire despite the thrumming pain she felt along her shoulders and back. Janos remained hidden, useless because his mutation would pick up unwanted pieces of scrap that would more likely come their way than to their enemies. From beside him, Mystique winced as she finally managed to pull out a glass shard that had been imbedded just above her shoulder blade, then she moved onto the others just above her right hip. As for Charles…

‘By doing nothing, you’re helping them.’

‘You’ve killed three good men and grievously injured two platoons.’

Erik fumed as he crushed the air in his hands. From the distance, screams could be heard. ‘I have been questioning myself constantly since your arrival whether you are trying to help us or trying to get us all killed.’

The smallest of cries escaped Mystique’s lips and she had to bite them down to stop any more from leaving her as she wiped the blood away with her hands to get a clearer view of her mutilated skin. She was not unfamiliar with pain but she vowed to try harder to avoid it the next time.

‘I never meant any harm.’

‘Look around you; we are fighting a war.’

‘No, _you_ are fighting a war; you instigated this.’

Erik sliced at the air, and a large rebar pulled itself away from the paved ceiling and fell down towards a small group of men that were ascending towards them. Three managed to pull back in time, one came away with the bar shot through his calf and wrapped around his leg. He screamed bloody murder as one man, the only one brave enough to rescue him, dragged him away kicking and shouting profanities.

‘If not me then they would have the upper hand.’

‘Look around you; does it look like the upper hand is yours?’

Emma was capable of felling men more than twice her weight and more than twice her size. With her secondary mutation coupled with her first, she was near indestructible. Azazel worked quickly and without hesitation, killing those who stood in his way and even those who weren’t. The two of them were the most efficient in his team and he felt confident with them by his side.

So it was with great pride that he turned to Charles and said, ‘yes.’

The man could not bear to look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mystique said as she waited for her raw skin to heal over before attempting to take the form of another soldier and fight again.

‘Do not apologize;’ _not for you brother,_ ‘try harder to better yourself.’ When he turned to regard Mystique, he came face to face instead with a man in his late twenties, unshaven, and with a gun strapped to his back that was more of a prop than anything else. He was gone with a nod of his head and a bloody knife in his hand. Seconds later, shouts and screams came from her direction.

‘Are you proud?’

Erik fought back a frustrated sigh as he watched Mystique move in through the crowd with a grace that belied the features she stole. The humans couldn’t tell if they were fighting the enemy or one of their own. ‘She chose this for herself, to better herself,’ _because I offered her something you could not give._

‘To be what? A murderer?’

‘To be _free_. No one should have to hide, ever.’

‘And when this is over, what then? The Law and Justice System will make sure she, along with you and everybody else, goes behind bars for the lives that have been taken.’

‘Maybe so, but we will be free to be who we were born to be.’

Something exploded in the distance, and the building rumbled all around them. More debris fell from the ceilings, windows shattered and the floor gave way.

Then he remembered that they were on the second level of a four-storey building.

Janos and Angel ran for it, barely making ten paces into their run when Azazel appeared and teleported them away mid-stride. Emma was gone. As for Mystique, she returned to their side.

‘They’re dead, and if we don’t leave now, _we’re_ dead!’ She began pulling at Erik and tried to run through the glass, rock and metal that littered across the floor. Charles followed closely behind.

They ran through the smoke, the dust and the heat of the fire that burned at the walls and artifacts that lined them. Another explosion happened much closer than the last, yet seemed more muffled that the previous. Erik gestured at the wall beside them and pulled. It came away in a neat block of paint, concrete and rebar. They didn’t wait for the air to settle before they jumped through. It was with relief that Azazel appeared mid-flight and helped them to the ground.

The wind blew more strongly outside than in, and when Erik looked, he saw Janos with his hands outstretched, a wild gleam in his eyes and with the air following his every will.

Angel was nowhere in sight, and when he looked again, neither was Azazel; gone he was in a puff of red smoke that melded with the dark grey of the winds.

Gunfire sounded in the distance and it was with barely a thought that Erik returned them to their owners. More men fell and he noted the growing distress on Charles’ face. At least he compromised and allowed them to _live_ , that should count for something.

‘It counts for very little.’

Finally, Erik could no longer afford any more tolerance for the man. He tried to grab the front of Charles’ uniform and hauled him up until he was standing on the tips of his toes and they were eye to eye, but Charles was quick to take that extra step back. ‘ _Enough_ , Charles; why are you here?’

‘I’m here to make sure you don’t do anything you’ll regret.’

‘The only thing I am regretting as of this moment is allowing you to come with us!’ The air stilled, but Erik refused to see what made Janos stop his attack; he was much too focused on the man in front of him. ‘You’ve done nothing, _nothing_ , but hinder us. You’ve cost us valuable time, energy, and resources and I cannot afford any more just to appeal to your whims.’

‘I _never_ meant any harm.’

‘That’s what you say but I cannot help but feel otherwise. Are you trying to sabotage us?’

Charles did not answer.

Something pulled at his sleeves, trying to draw his attention urgently. The world was deathly silent around them as though it was at a standstill. Something was happening, but he did not care. All he cared about was the man in front of him and how much he wished he would _leave_ and be gone.

‘We do not want the same thing,’ Erik whispered harshly and watched Charles take another respectful step away. ‘I see that now.’

His shoulders were shaking and there was a ringing in his ears that grated on his frayed nerves. His mind was pounding against his skull and against the helmet that held him in and protected him. His headache was a constant stab, like the constant companion that Charles has been this past week.

He took a deep breath and stared into the man’s eyes and said, ‘Charles, when this is over, I want you to leave.’

‘Erik!’

He turned and saw Mystique. He saw Mystique holding onto him desperately and he saw Emma and Azazel standing close behind her while Janos stood a fair distance away with Angel standing adjacent to him. They were staring.

‘Erik,’ she began again and he noticed the slight shake in her hands as she held onto him, ‘there’s something wrong with you.’

He scoffed and pulled away from her weak grasp, ‘perhaps when your brother takes leave then everything will be fine.’

Her gaze grew wider (if that was even possible) as she took in his words. It was with great effort that she forced herself to swallow the lump that had grown in her throat to utter her next words. ‘My…brother.’

He seethed and jabbed at the empty air beside him, ‘yes, your _brother_ , the same man who refuses to help our cause and who would sooner _lead_ us to death than save us from it!’

Mystique was shaking, looking back and forth from Erik to the vacant spot just in front of them. She continued to shake as she took a fumbled step backwards to take hold of Azazel’s arm. Erik watched in confusion as the both of them disappeared in a plume of red smoke, leaving the rest of them behind in the middle of a battle field. When he looked towards Charles again, he saw no one.

That was when he began to grow concerned.


	4. Chapter 4

Too many things were running rampant through her mind, but the main emotion she felt overall was devastation; devastation for Charles, and devastation for Erik. Things were not supposed to be this way.

‘Raven, please calm down.’

Her breath was growing more and more shallow the more she processed what she was seeing and what she was feeling. She couldn’t believe it, and more than anything, she wished she had known sooner.

But things were not supposed to go so wildly out of control that she’d have the galls to run back to her brother to ask for help after deciding to choose Erik over him. And yet, here she was, begging. Begging for Charles to help Erik, even though she should be more concerned with the fact that Charles is in a wheelchair and no longer able to stand, let alone walk. Things were not supposed to be this way.

‘Raven, _please_.’

‘Charles, you have to come with me,’ she said in a rush of words as she ran to him to take his hand. In that same instance, the others, Hank, Sean and Alex, took one large, threatening step towards her, to ward her off, to tell her she no longer has the right to be here, or even ask for _help_. It was also with a pointed look from Charles that they took no more than that one step towards them. Azazel remained cautiously to the side, but stayed well within an arm’s reach of her should the need to disappear ever arise.

‘Charles, _please_ ,’ her voice was shaking and her eyes were pooling with tears. She didn’t care how she looked in front of the others; she just wanted somebody to _fix_ this, whatever _this_ was. ‘Come with me,’ she finished in a whisper, no longer able to say anymore.

‘What happened to Erik?’ He asked gravely.

A part of her grew a little concerned that Charles was reading her mind. Maybe she was projecting or broadcasting; shouting it out for him to hear, but she decided it didn’t matter. What mattered right now was Erik. Erik, who was slowly falling apart and all she could do, was watch.

She opened her mind, didn’t care that she was giving up her privacy, that she was forcing Charles to break his promise to her. Anything she could do to help Erik, she would do it.

She tightened her grip on his hand and took the other to his temple; permission for him to look, to watch, to learn and to help.

He pursed his lips and watched her with alarm clear in his eyes; were things going so far downhill that she needed to resort to something this drastic? But she merely nodded her assent and closed her eyes in preparation to the invasion.

Charles took one deep breath and then dived.

\--

 _Running, running, running; that was all she could do, over the hills, through the trees and in the waters. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, so much, her head, her legs, her feet, and her heart. She was crying, crying and she didn’t know if she could stop._

 _Why? Why is this happening?_

Why me, why me, why me?

 _She kept running and crying until she could run and cry no more._

 _The sky was dark, the moon was high, the clouds were thick and looming and she has no idea where she is or where she’s headed but she kept walking, despite the pain in her soles and the wetness she felt wasn’t water between her toes. She ached._

 _It was cold, the grass was wet and a light fog began to form just hovering above the grounds. She shivered as the wind rustled through the branches of the trees above her and stray leaves fell to the floor. The further she walked, the more she realized that there was no more going back; there is no back to return to. She tried to hold herself together._

 _She watched the skies through the gaps in the trees. Sometimes she saw the moon, most of the time she saw dark clouds. Then the leafy canopies began to thin and the spaces between them began to widen, but she kept her gaze firmly upwards towards the only light she could see for miles around. No stars._

 _Something stabbed the moon and she stopped. Then she looked down and saw a house, a very large house, probably four houses combined to make one big house. Then she saw a smaller house to the side and thought: four houses and a cottage._

 _She stood behind a tree, stooped down until she sat on the wet ground and watched._

 _The lights aren’t on; nobody’s home, but she doesn’t know the time, can’t tell at all._

 _But she felt hungry; she hasn’t eaten for a few hours, maybe more than that, maybe even days. So it was hunger that drove her to enter the dark house through a crack in the windows, walk with care down the dark, quiet corridors and sulk in the shadows. She kept in silence as she took in the pictures, antiques, paintings and high chandeliers. Then she found it, the kitchen._

 _And then she found Charles, her brother._

\--

 _Her eyes are blue. No, her eyes are golden. She likes the gold, but it’s too bright; stands out too much; she doesn’t like being stared at. She goes back to blue. But sometimes, they turn green, or at least one of them does._

 _She has blonde hair, red hair, blonde hair, red hair. She likes the red hair, because it’s a brilliant color and she’s heard how other girls say it’s great, how wonderful it would look with_ this _hair color but how they can never get it right. She gets it right without even trying. But no, she goes back to being blonde because Xaviers don’t dye their hair an improper color._

 _She has fair skin, with a light sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and nose. It’s a ‘natural’ skin tone, appealing to most, unlike the grooves and patterns that’s lying underneath it all. But she keeps it hidden because it allows the Xaviers to breathe more easily._

 _No, it lets_ Charles _breathe more easily._

\--

 _The grass is stained blue, the air reeks of butchered meat and she can’t remember the last time she’s felt this sick, this tired, this scared._

 _The grass is stained blue, but it’s also colored with the previous night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast. She decided that she can never look at eggs and bacon the same way ever again. Or lamb stew._

 _The world is shaking, but then she realized that it’s not the world; it’s her. And when she has nothing left to give, she stands on unsteady legs and she’s wishing for a glass of water, or two, or three with every step she takes towards Erik._

 _She stands beside him as the building collapse under the strain and as the dust float around them. Then she hears his name, Charles’ name, whispered through Erik’s lips. She’s looking for him, her brother, but she sees no one. Then she turns to Erik, and she stares._

\--

 _Erik’s speaking, in a way that she hasn’t heard him speak in months, not since before leaving Charles behind. It’s passionate in a way it never is around them, not even her. She wants to see, what’s made him feel like so. But privacy is a precious thing so she doesn’t see, doesn’t listen, doesn’t even come close enough to the door to hear more than that passionate voice she hasn’t heard in a very long time._

 _She misses this part of Erik, and she misses Charles, too, because that’s what she has associated this passionate voice with. They would’ve made wonderful leaders together._

 _As she walks through the club, she’s checking off her list and she comes to one conclusion; Erik is alone._

 _No, Erik is not alone. And that’s when she slides another broken piece of puzzle together to slowly form a distressing picture._

\--

 _Running, running, running; that was all she needed to do if she wanted to live, through the debris of glass, rock and metal strewn across the floor. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, so much, her back above her shoulder blade, her right hip, her arms, her legs and her feet._

 _The ceiling is crumbling, the floor is falling and the wall beside her is gone and then they’re flying through the air. Her heart is flying along with her but in two pops, they’re on the ground. She limped, despite the pain in her soles and the wetness she knew was blood between her toes. She can’t find steady ground._

 _Then she hears that voice again, that passionate voice she’s learned to associate with Charles and something wrong. And then she turns and sees something wrong. Then she’s running, half-limping towards him, holding him, shaking him and then she tells him that something is_ wrong. __

 _He’s saying his name again, shouting it, but she doesn’t see him, her brother; he’s not here. Then she’s not there anymore, but Charles is._

\--

He didn’t understand, but he saw it, through her eyes, in her mind and it didn’t make the slightest sense at all. Something is very wrong with Erik, but what?

‘I’ll go.’

Raven let out a cry of relief just as Hank, Sean and Alex let out a cry of protest. She started shouting through her tears at them, because they didn’t understand; they don’t know what it’s like, and Azazel had to hold her back before she got herself hurt, more than she already was.

Charles saw the dried blood on her, could still feel it in his phantom toes, and he grew nauseous, but he supposed it was the residual feeling he gleaned from her memories.

‘I am going,’ he said above their yells, and he made sure that three specific sets of eyes were on him before he continued in strict warning, ‘and you will stay and look after the others.’

Everybody in the room felt uneasy, tensed and ready to pounce, or disappear.

Charles made sure, gave them hope that they have nothing to worry about while he was gone. ‘It won’t be long,’ he promised as he took Raven’s hand that quickly clung onto his desperately. He smiled at them, told them to behave then was gone in a whirl of red vapors.

When the world finally stopped spinning, all he could still see was red because the world was painted in nothing but shades of red.

Emma, whom he’s known to only wear one color is wearing another on her once-immaculate clothes and smooth skin. Janos, who has only ever worn grey suits, is now sporting a clashing pattern of red to go with it. Angel, who’s wearing too dark colors to tell apart properly, though there’s a slick sheen to them, but he could see the red splashes across her cheeks, her arms and down her legs. And then there was Erik, who is also wearing red, but of his own choosing, and who is looking entirely too crazed and is surrounded by entirely too much blood. They’re all surrounded by blood, standing in pools of it.

Charles grew nauseous, but this time, it’s more from the sights and smells than the memories from Raven. Raven, who is staring at him desperately and hoping against hope that Charles can help Erik. Erik, who is slowly falling apart and she’s wishing she’s done enough so she no longer has to stand by and watch helplessly but all Charles can see is a blank spot where a brilliant mind used to be.

And all Erik can see is a man in a wheelchair.

\--

There was a sudden lack of breath in his lungs. He supposed it had everything to do with the man who looked like Charles but can’t possibly be Charles. It can’t be Charles, but it has to be; nobody else has eyes that same shade of blue as this man did, or the style in which he combed his hair. But the wheelchair…it didn’t fit.

Erik staggered two steps backwards. The wheelchair is real; he can feel the smooth familiarity of the combination metal it was made from, unlike the times where he’s noticed the metal clasps, buckles and zippers on Charles’ uniform but couldn’t feel it at all. This Charles is real, yet…

‘This…can’t be you.’ His voice was gone, reduced to the smallest of whispers. He still can’t breathe, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the wheelchair because it’s the only thing that feels genuine; metal never lies, not to him.

‘It me, Erik.’ Charles said as he moved one of his hands into a pocket.

His heart stopped for the briefest of moments as he finally noticed another piece of metal, recognizable to him like an old, old friend he hasn’t seen in a very long time. His fingers twitched in a well-established motion and a silver Reichsmark floated towards him to wind around his fingers. He let it drop to the middle of his palm. The eagle returns his stare.

This is Charles…

An old ache began to burn in his chest as he remembered that day, a memory he had been reliving every night since it happened. That day had been his biggest downfall.

A slow shadow crept towards him and a hand reached for his. He withdrew. Erik closed his fist over the coin, allowed it to dig into his skin and bite. He ignored the shake in his hand as he stared into eyes of the sincerest blue.

The man sighed. ‘I’ve been like this since Cuba.’

Erik shook his head. He recalled how that day ended. He left Charles on that beach, bruised but not broken. He was sure of it; he remembered pulling the bullet out.

‘Stand up, Charles.’ He left Charles on that beach, bruised but not broken.

‘I—what? I can’t.’

Erik grabbed his arm, and he watched the man wince as he tightened his grip over them. ‘Stand up,’ he said as he took hold of the other arm and ignored the pullback he received. He pulled the bullet out, he remembered, he knew he did.

He heard a startled cry from Mystique, but he ignored her as he continued to pull and Charles continued to poorly resist.

‘Erik, I can’t!’

‘Stand!’ He hauled the man to his feet, relished the moment where Charles stood on his own for a grand total of one second before gravity fell on the both of them. The man wasn’t heavy, but the sudden rush of weight caught him unawares.

They fell on the grass, the mud, the blood, and bullet casings dug onto the palm of his other hand as he stared down at the man who was watching him with distress clear in his eyes. He noted their tangled legs and how not a single twitch came from the other.

Suddenly, Erik can’t breathe again.

‘This is a lie.’

‘Erik, something is wrong.’ He could see it in the way Erik’s eyes could not focus on any single point, the way his breathing became shallow and uneven and how feverish he looked.

‘This is a lie.’

He stared down at the man, the man that had the same shade of blue in his eyes and wore his hair in exactly the same way as his friend. This man is not that friend, this man can’t be Charles. Erik tightened his hold over the coin and felt it dig deeper into the palm of his skin and into Charles’ arm.

He repeated the words over and over again until it became a mumbled mess and the pain in his hand, the throb in his head and the ache in his heart was all he could feel.

‘Erik! _Look at me!_ ’

There’s a hand on his shoulder near his neck and he stopped. He noticed the water droplets on the man’s cheeks and he couldn’t believe that he’s crying. Crying for the loss he’s felt accumulated over the months and crying for the loss of his friend, crying _for_ his friend.

Erik shook his head. ‘This…this is a lie, this can’t be you. This isn’t you. Charles.’

‘Erik…’

He was distraught. So much that he barely noticed when Charles is cautiously lifting the helmet from his head, though he could feel the wind going through his hair that was damp with sweat. It was oddly soothing. And when he closed his eyes, he felt calm wash over him in gentle waves.

‘Erik, do you trust me?’ Charles whispered into his ear. It was then he noticed that he was leaning heavily on the man as if he hadn’t had a moment of rest in years. It was mostly true.

He drew in a deep breath, one that was filled with cut grass, watered down soil, spilt blood and gunpowder. Then he sighed and said quietly, ‘I can no longer trust myself.’

He’s been gone for far too long and he didn’t know if he can work himself back to it, if he was even capable of it. He couldn’t stop the words, _what have I done, what have I done, what have I done,_ from repeating in his mind like an old turntable that couldn’t stop skipping.

‘Can you trust me the same way I trust you?’

A bitter laugh escaped him and he wondered how Charles could still possibly have any faith in him. It was impossible. But he answered anyway. ‘How can we test that?’

‘The same way you gave me a gun and told me to shoot you point blank.’

He sincerely hoped that he’s not imagining that smile in Charles’ voice as he replied with a snort. ‘You didn’t shoot.’

‘No, but you trusted me enough to show you the balance of having both rage and serenity in your life.’

Erik’s breath caught and his body grew tense as he stared at the cloth of Charles’ ruined suit. He came to a startling conclusion. ‘You are my serenity.’

‘Come back with me.’

He wondered why it took him so long to remember this, and he held onto Charles desperately. ‘You are my serenity.’

‘Please, Erik. Come back with me.’

‘You are my serenity.’ He didn’t want to lose this.

‘Will you come back with me?’

 _Yes._


	5. Chapter 5

The lights were too bright and the room was entirely too white. The setting of the room was very familiar to him and he could feel the beginnings of fear and rage grip into him in a tight strangle. Before the emotions could fully settle, he saw something else familiar to him and he felt calm at the sight of it. His serenity.

His head felt clear, no stabs, no migraines, nothing. It was bliss.

A hand gripped onto his, warm and secure. He saw Charles’ lips move but he heard no sounds, nothing but the ringing silence that went in from one ear and through the other. The words were repeated over and over and over again, until he understood what it meant.

 _Everything will be alright._

He nodded, the barest of head gestures, and closed his eyes with a sigh. Two hands gripped onto his, warm and secure. For the first time in a long time (four months, three weeks and five days), he fell asleep without hearing the sound of a gun going off and feeling his stomach drop in perfect timing with the missiles. For the first time in months, he merely slept and dreamt of nothing but serenity.

\--

The wine cellar was perhaps one of her most favorite places in the world. It was cool, quiet and smelled fragrant from years of accumulated whiffs of floral and fruity bouquets. It was beautiful, organized and most of all, private. Emma never thought she’d ever find herself in a place like this. It would be easy for someone like her to simply walk into a winery and just take whatever she wanted, but to be given _permission; free reign,_ perhaps that was what she’s been waiting for all these years.

She brought a glass of red wine to her nose, drew in a long, deep breath and tasted the plums, liquorice and mocha gathering at the back of her throat. She swirled the red wine around the glass and thought it might taste nice with wild mushrooms, if only she were a fan of mushrooms in the first place.

She normally partook in white wines, more delicate than red, but she was willing to make an exception for such a lovingly looked after Cabernet Sauvignon despite the fact that she had more of a preference for chilled wines.

Emma took the smallest of sips, then hummed in appreciation. ‘You have a wonderful collection of wines, Charles.’ She commented as she brought the wine to the only light source in the cellar; a candle. The color was beautiful.

‘Thank you, it’s refreshing to see such admiration for the wine. I’ve become accustomed to people drink it like it’s only water.’

She tried not to smile at that. She attempted to pour the man a glass, but a silent decline made her put the bottle back down beside her.

She sighed tiredly. ‘And how is Erik?’ A part of her was still chastising herself for not noticing sooner. Despite Erik’s ferocity, he was a good man, a good leader who genuinely cared for all his fellow brothers and sisters. He _is_ a good man, she corrected herself.

‘Sleeping, but it’s to be expected,’ he said as he gave the top rows a passing glance; they haven’t been turned in a while. ‘He _will_ make a full recovery.’

‘There’s no need to convince me of that, dear.’

‘I know,’ _but I needed to say it._

In the back of his mind, he knew that everything will be alright, that Erik will be fine and that there’s no need to worry. But the man had bled so much under that white glare and there had been a moment where Charles’ faith had most certainly wavered for the slightest bit. Charles _knew_ , but that didn’t stop him from picking up the terrible habit of biting his nails again. Raven had been very much the same, though her stress showed through in her eyes; heterochromia. Emma found comfort in wine, or more specifically, Charles’ collection of very fine, and very old wines down in the cellar. He supposed he could make do with a few less bottles; he’s still not allowed it indulge in any form of alcohol for at least another one and a half months.

‘You may have any wine you wish in the cellar,’ he said as he began to wheel away back to the main portions of the house, ‘the only wine I ask you not to take is the Bordeaux Rouge.’

A number rang clear in her mind, a string of it that didn’t particularly make any sense, yet was easily deciphered. It was a date, a specific date that came with a specific memory. Emma did not see all of it, but she was given a residual feeling, the feeling of being _found._

Almost immediately, her eyes were drawn to a bottle tucked away in the middle of a row of other vintage wines of various dates and stages of completion. She didn’t know why, but if she could guess, it was probably the bottle Charles didn’t want her to have. It was the only one that was free of dust, as though it’s been taken out and looked at constantly, but never drunk from. She noted the placement; well within reach of a man who could no longer stand.

She smiled wistfully as she smelled the wine again. ‘Such a sentimental man.’

\--

The lights were too bright and the bed was entirely too soft for his liking. The setting of the room was very familiar to him and he wondered if this was a dream. It had to be. After all, he hadn’t set foot in the Xavier mansion in months, not since their separation in Cuba. He chose not to ponder on it for long before he closed his eyes again and concentrated on the feel of warm blankets and the feel of the metal placed around the room. With slightly more effort than he was willing to admit, he pulled the curtains shut with a slow drag of his hand and went back into slumber.

That night, he dreamt. He dreamt that he was in a room; an old study filled with books of various sizes and thickness, but in the middle of it sat him and Charles with a half-completed game of chess between them. He dreamt that he found his peace and this was it.

When the next time he woke, the room was still dark; the curtains drawn, but from the corner of his eye, he saw a flickering light, and when he turned, he saw a man reading a novel beside him and occasionally muttered his lines aloud. Charles was more than half-way through it.

When the muttering stopped, Erik looked up to see his stare being returned.

‘Good afternoon.’

His throat felt rather parched but he returned the greeting with a nod.

Charles didn’t mind. Instead, he put his book down on his lap and picked up two glasses from the bedside table. ‘Water or orange juice? I recommend the orange juice; your diet is lacking in vitamin C.’

Erik felt almost well enough to roll his eyes, but he huffed instead as he slowly sat himself up on the bed (too soft for his liking) and took the glass of orange juice to his lips. Too sweet.

‘If you are interested to know, you’ve been in bed for nine days, five where you slept continuously and spent the rest coming in and out of consciousness.’ The man commented as he picked up his book again, opened it to a seemingly random page, but did not read from it.

 _Nine days?_ For some reason, he did not feel at all rested. But he drank the rest of his juice in silence and sipped at the water to wash the intense sweetness away from his mouth and then he drank the rest of it to wash down the pulp that was clogging his throat.

It was odd to be back in his room again after so long, and not a single thing stood out of place. There was the slightest gathering of dust from on top of the cupboard that he could see, but discounting that, it was almost as if this room had been waiting for his return for a very long time. The bed felt different though, or maybe it’s perhaps he’s grown used to stiff beds again.

As if noticing his wandering gaze, Charles spoke softly, ‘I’ll get someone to give your room a good dusting in a while.’

He wanted to say, _no need; I can do it myself,_ but he stopped himself. He didn’t want to give Charles, or himself, the false hope that he might actually stay. No, best not go that far.

Charles gave the softest of sighs but did not voice his concerns over that accidental projection. He changed the subject.

‘Erik, were you at all aware what you’ve been wearing atop your head?’ He began seriously.

He raised an eyebrow at the question. ‘Yes,’ he cleared his throat in hopes that it would take away the gravel he felt in them, ‘but I am going to assume that it’s not at all what I assumed it to be.’

Charles closed the book again, put it beside the empty glasses and leaned down to reach whatever sat beside him. It was a box. He opened it and put it at the very edge of the bed for Erik to see.

It was the helmet.

He waited for the man to explain, and soon enough, he did.

‘I did some research with Hank and Emma. The helmet is Russian-made, in a metalwork and next to a lab that conducts various tests and experiments. The lab has a certain specialty that I don’t particularly care for,’ he said as he kept his gaze firmly fixed on Erik. ‘Their staff retention is very high, which is very understandable, yet makes me wonder why they even bother trying for all the _good_ its doing.’

Erik was surprised by the vehemence in which the man spoke, but sometimes, he wished Charles would just _get to the point._ If the man heard that last bit of thought, he chose to fully ignore it.

‘They make weapons, a profession in Russia which is very stereotypical in my opinion, but it’s what they do. It’s the same as how you’d only get specific products only available in Asia and nowhere else. The Russians specialize in nuclear testing, fusions, and they have reactors placed not fifty feet away from both the labs and metalwork. Their staff retention is so high because people keep _dying_ from being exposed to that kind of environment every day of their short working lives. All of this, and for what?’

Erik realized that he was sweating. Well, at least it explained the headaches and hallucinations; there had always been something about the other Charles that threw him off, more so than usual.

‘You, my friend, have been wearing a radioactive helmet on your head constantly for almost five months. I’ve been told you even _sleep_ with it.’

He frowned. ‘Shaw wore it, too.’

‘Yes, but Shaw did not wear it all the time!’ Erik might have to concede to that possibility. ‘Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t, but I don’t care much for the dead man.’ _What I care is that_ you _almost_ died.

Erik wished he wasn’t so speechless, but that last unspoken confession took all of his words away. Every language he knew, every bit of vocabulary he had learnt over the years, none of it contained the right words to convey what he felt. He didn’t know what to say.

‘Hank said that if it hadn’t been for your X-gene, you would’ve died well within two weeks from that kind of exposure, maybe even less. The fact that you wore it for _months…_ ’ For once, Charles struggled to string the proper words together, but with the rolling waves of emotions that came off him, it was obvious that he was angry, concerned, _frightened._ ‘We’ve got the others checked; mild exposure. I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re still in the habit of keeping to yourself otherwise we might’ve had more than one casualty.’

Erik shifted his gaze away, tried to push down the sudden sickness he felt bubbling in his stomach and the dizziness that spun around his head. How much longer would he have lasted if not for Charles’ and Raven’s interference? If left alone long enough, how many more others would fall with him? If he hadn’t argued with a figment of his imagination well within view of everybody, would they have eventually noticed that he wasn’t well?

He had a feeling that even if they expressed their concerns over it, he would’ve ignored them and continued to plow through his plans to show that nothing was wrong. It was possible that he’d keel over before admitting yes; _I need help._

Charles let out a quiet huff as he picked the box back up, slammed the lid shut and practically shoved it back on the floor. He rubbed at his face, pinched at the bridge of his nose and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it to such a dramatic state that it left Erik completely awed. Charles had always been a man of presentation.

Blue eyes were staring, glaring at him again and he pointed an accusing finger at the box. ‘I’m confiscating this.’ He said quite seriously.

Erik couldn’t believe that Charles had the audacity to attempt hiding something that was made of metal from him, but he decided it was probably for the best. He gave a quiet nod in agreement.

Charles let out a relieved sigh, looking as though he thought he might have to fight tooth and nail for it, as he leaned back in his chair until his neck was bent at an awkward angle and he stayed like that until he felt his heart rate go down to a more reasonable pace. Erik watched him take in one deep breath after another, coupled with the occasional sigh. After the fifth sigh, he straightened back up and watched the bedridden man with another serious expression.

‘Now that we finally have that out of the way, are you well enough for a game of chess or am I moving along too quickly for you?’ He finished with a playful smile.

Erik couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he regarded his friend and decided, maybe he can stay for a game or two. Best out of three.

\--

He was no stranger to blood. He was no stranger to guns. He was no stranger to violence, but he never thought he’d ever become victim to a stray bullet. The pain had been surreal, blinding and had left him completely breathless, caught between wanting to scream for all its worth and wanting to faint.

The memory had lost most of its sharp edges, but it was still there and still bright. Between the moments of still being caught in between his dreams and waking up, he could still feel the pain thrumming down his spine and exploding in white bursts in his eyes. If he wanted to focus on anything else but the terrible blank spot where Erik’s mind used to be, then he’d feel the relief of every single soul on the ships across the waters as the missiles and bombs plunged deep in the sea or exploded in mid-collision, the shock and devastation of all of his friends and family on the beach, and the sudden loss of feeling in his legs.

The beach has been a recurring nightmare for many months now. Charles was more or less used to it, no longer having to wake up with staggering breaths and cold sweats anymore, but that’s not to say he’s become indifferent to it. It comes and goes, but thankfully, it has no part in his usual lineup of his days. But today, unlike every other day, the existence of mutants isn’t just a nightmare, or a government propaganda and a conspiracy anymore; they are real. The word has spread. They know.

 _We are humans, too._

It’s been a long time coming (eight years, nine months, three weeks and five days), but he’s glad it’s finally here.

On the first of August, he was extended an invitation to attend a conference, held in the halls of a newly constructed building located in Washington, and give a speech concerning what he knows best; genetics, human mutation. Radio hosts, television crews and newspaper reporters will be flocking in by the hundreds to ask him questions. Questions, assuming what he’s seen and heard so far to be correct, that will mostly be friendly, though he will also take into account the occasional hostile remark, but they were the minority.

Humans are very adaptable creatures; after all, change is the only constant in the world so he’s not surprised that they’re finally accepted, some more grudgingly than others.

Perhaps peace was never really an option, considering how people would sooner pick up a weapon to make a point rather than use their words, but he could settle for this, this timid acceptance and wary coexistence. It was a step forward.

On the second of August, as soon as every last bit of luggage was stacked in a somewhat precarious pile of the main foyer, Azazel took their hands and they teleported to the front steps of a generous, all-expense-paid hotel. Raven was gushing beside him (very blue but fully dressed, thank you very much), Hank was stunned speechless at the grandeur and Charles was radiating with happiness at the pleasant shock and absolute awe he felt coming from the children and the adults around them. Two pops later, their luggage appeared beside them and three men with cameras started snapping pictures and asking questions. Ten seconds later, they were surrounded. Charles made a note that they probably needed to make a more discreet check-in the next time, though, Azazel seemed to be enjoying the limelight, if his grin was anything to go by.

The conference was held on the fourth, so he gave Raven and Hank free reign to do whatever they wanted to do and go wherever they wanted to go in the city. Raven left without needing being told twice, and she dragged Hank along with her, more for his muscles to carry her shopping bags than his adorable company (in that flustered way that’s unique only to him). Charles kept a mental watch-out for the both of them at all times, but never lingered to the point of smothering.

When at last the day came, he was dressed in his best (tweed) suit (complete with elbow patches) and proceeded to give a very long, but very informative speech concerning the evolution of the human DNA. Most were very interested, but he noted one or two that were dozing off in the back rows. It was like teaching in a classroom, which he supposed was not all that different.

Near the end of it, he gave the room his usual sweeping glance, and saw him standing near the door. He saw Erik. Erik, who was supposed to be in New Jersey giving his own speech and even a demonstration of his skills at the end of it. He supposed Erik cut it short because he wasn’t very good at handling rooms full of people that don’t always understand the concept of personal space.

He raised an eyebrow, caught the amused smirk on the man’s face, and tried to stop himself from returning a full-blown smile as he ended the speech sooner than he had planned. It was probably for the best, because his listeners were starting to fidget and a good few of them had their notepads filled to the brim with questions, notes and answers.

A few reporters noticed Erik and even rushed towards him with their thoughts, opinions and questions. He answered only a handful of them. But Charles didn’t mind too much; they were a team again.

 _Are you proud?_ He caught the thought projected at him.

He thought about how much they’ve accomplished, how far they’ve gone to come to this stage, how much further they could go if given the chance and the opportunity. He is swelling with pride and hope and he couldn’t help the smile on his face as he answered a question from a female television host from a popular news crew as he thought in return, _yes._

 _You are either utterly foolish or disgustingly optimistic._

Charles was in favor of the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm a sucker for happy endings, but don't worry, reality will eventually catch up to me and I'll end up writing something full of angst or whatever. Maybe I'll go for an AU next, or whatever idea pops up in my head first...
> 
> WELL! I hope everybody enjoyed the read! Thank you to all that left kudos, comments on and off site and stuck with me till the very end! I had lots of fun and I hope it's been good for you too. =D
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
